


Shoot to Kill

by jadrea



Series: Wasteland Roaming [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Commonwealth, Diamond City, Gunners, Original Character(s), Sanctuary Hills, Wasteland, is this a treasure hunt? maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26295352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadrea/pseuds/jadrea
Summary: There's a secret hidden under the Commonwealth, and it seems everybody wants to get their hands on it.('Commonwealth Ghost' arc: Episode 2 of 5)
Series: Wasteland Roaming [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874065
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Inside Man

**Author's Note:**

> 1/19/2021 UPDATE: Thanks to everyone who's read and kudos'd and commented, I really, really appreciate it! The past couple of months have hit me pretty hard, but I promise more Fitz Mosby is on the way. Thanks for your patience.

This wasn't the worst day he'd ever had, but it was up there on the list.

Mosby narrowed his eyes against the near-blinding green glare emitted by the creature in front of him. It snarled and swung at his chest. He ducked, falling backward and feeling walls press into his back. Cornered--of course.

Couldn't throw a grenade, the quarters were too close. End up taking himself out along with the Glowing One.

He could feel his stomach churning as the rads climbed. Had to act fast.

Going against his better judgment, he turned his rifle from the creature's chest to its legs, firing first at the left, then the right. The initial shots missed, but then one struck true. And another.

The thing was down just a few feet away. It scrabbled for his legs, decaying fingers grasping the hem of his pants.

Almost felt sorry for the fucker.

A few quick shots to the head finished him off.

Mosby stepped over him, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and swallowing some RadAway. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the nausea subside.

Two weeks he'd been working with the Gunners. Two lousy weeks of raids on caves and abandoned huts and crumbling factories near the railroad tracks.

Almost seemed like the Gunners were looking for something. Nobody would give him a straight answer, though. Not yet.

Mosby rejoined the two others in the scouting party.

"The fuck have you been?"

"Got cornered by a Glowing One, had to care of it."

The Private who had spoken gave him a sideways look. "Thought you were a goner, for sure."

Mosby forced a laugh. "Have a little more faith in me."

The other Private lowered her rifle and leaned forward. "I've seen you herding ferals on our raids. You're real careful with how you shoot, ain't you. Just one in the head, like you're putting down a pet."

"Conserving ammo," Mosby offered.

"Hm," the first Private grunted. "Best be careful, Solomon, boss might think you're soft."

"Who was it that took down that Deathclaw? Was it you, Private Parker?" Mosby leaned to the side and spit a mouthful of dirt and saliva. "I don't got a thing to prove."

The privates grumbled, but seemed to think he had a point.

"Yeah, yeah."

Parker led the way through the ruined rail yard. He pointed.

"Old warehouse up there, we should check that out. Might have some scrap."

"I thought we were on a scouting mission to clear the tracks," Mosby said, keeping his tone casual. "What's boss gonna do with scrap? Need it to find that whatever-the-hell he's looking for?"

The Private behind him, Foster, jabbed him in the back with the butt of her gun. "Just shut up and go."

The rusty metal door was unlocked. Despite the damage of its surroundings, the warehouse stood intact. One of those Wasteland miracles, he supposed.

Parker entered first, checking the corners of the building with a swift glance.

"Looks clear."

He moved toward a cabinet along the far wall as Foster and Mosby entered behind.

"There's nothing here," Foster said, lowering her shotgun. "Waste of time."

"Just let me-"

As Parker pulled open the drawer of the cabinet to peer inside, there was a loud _click_.

"What the-"

The door slammed shut behind them, locking. Above their heads, a siren began to wail.

"Fuck!"

Foster pulled with all her might on the door but it was stuck fast.

"Let me take a look," Mosby said, pulling a lock pick from his pocket.

Parker swept the inside of the walls, wincing at the blaring noise. He found a circuit board and ripped it open, slamming the switch into the 'off' position.

Overhead the siren gave a final wee-oooo and died.

"Who knows what that attracted," Foster snapped. "We've got to get out of here."

"Give me a minute," Mosby said, ear pressed to the door.

"Can you really pick that?" Parker asked.

"Sure." He hoped. He gave the handle an experimental tug and it didn't move. "Say, while we've got a minute to ourselves, what's boss looking for, anyway?"

"You sure ask a lot of fucking questions for a gun-toting merc," Foster retorted. "You work for that rag in Diamond City?"

Parker snorted. "That crazy reporter never shuts up about the 'army of synth replacements' supposedly right under our noses."

Mosby ran with it. "You mean you don't know? Those synths are all around us, man, they could be anybody--you, her, hell, could be me!"

"Piss off." Foster was watching the windows, finger itching toward the trigger of her rifle.

"I gotta ask these questions, make sure everybody's still, you know," he leaned forward with an exaggerated whisper, " _themselves_."

"How about you forget about that and do your job," Parker snapped. "Get that fucking door open. I ain't worried about no synths. Shoot 'em a dozen times and they fall apart just like the rest of us."

Mosby opted not to push his luck any farther. He fiddled with the lock until it clicked open.

"Back to camp. We've been gone long enough."

These Gunners weren't talking. He'd have to get his answers some other way.

*

"Alright, spread out."

The scouting patrol returned to a stern talking-to by the Gunner Captain about wasting time and failing to bring back anything, not even a damn fuse.

Leaving an armed contingent at the train, the Captain led a half-dozen Gunners, including their newest mercenary hire, on another scavenging expedition.

 _Another one_ , Mosby thought, his rifle colliding with his back as he lowered himself down into the ruined remains of the plane. _Never thought Gunners needed this much scrap._

"Spread out," the Captain barked. "You know what to look for. Boss won't let us turn up empty-handed again."

Mosby nodded, pretending to listen, and scanned the surroundings.

Nothing but bent, rusted metal. A few broken suitcases.

The Gunners spread out, shuffling across the muddy ground. A few kicked cans out of their way, the loud clatter breaking the silence that hung over the Skylanes wreckage.

He picked his way over to Parker.

"Not you again."

Mosby grinned. "Say, man, you wanna tell me what to look for? Captain hasn't told me a thing."

"Probably 'cause he don't trust you. I know I don't."

Parker turned away, keeping one eye on Mosby and the other on the pile of scrap he was sorting.

The newcomer took the hint and raised his hands defensively.

"Sure, sure, man, that's on you."

Mosby backed away and waited until he was out of sight to roll his eyes skyward. He'd risked his ass to take out a Deathclaw and a Glowing One, and still they didn't trust him.

To be honest, he couldn't blame them. But he couldn't waste more time.

Quickly, he gathered a few wrenches and bits of sheet metal. Leaving them in a pile and making sure he was out of sight of the others, he grasped his arm and stood over a curling wall of what was once the plane's cabin.

"Fuck me," he muttered, and forced his hand down onto the jagged edge.

Picking up his finds and cradling them as best he could in his bleeding hand, he searched for the Captain in the ruins.

"Cap," he called.

The man was crouched by a ruined engine and turned, irritated. "Get back to work, Solomon."

"I've got some scrap, sir. And-" He held up his hand.

"How the fuck'd you do that?" The man rose to his feet. "You really are useless. Get back to camp and try not to kill yourself on the way there."

"I'll do my best."

Mosby kept up the stumbling, wincing act until he was sure he'd crested the ridge and was out of eyesight. Dumping his burden on the ground, he tore a strip of fabric from his shirt and wrapped his palm.

Got to think of a better idea next time.

It was nightfall by the time he returned to camp.

He called out to identify himself to the guards standing on the perimeter--the last thing he needed was to get shot in the head for his troubles.

"Where's the rest of 'em?"

"Still scavenging," Mosby replied. "They'll be back soon. Captain sent me on ahead."

They regarded him with suspicious eyes, but didn't stop him.

He had no idea how quickly the others would return. Not much time. Dumping the scrap in a pile near the campfire, he forced a friendly smile at the Gunner who stood over it, warming his hands. He received a glare in return.

Walking casually to the spot on the ground he'd been designated to sleep, Mosby sat and pulled off his boots.

The wrench he'd tucked inside his sleeve was searing hot against his arm.

As the last lights faded from the sky, visibility in the camp was piss-poor along the outer edges. Leaving his boots, Mosby crept into the shadows.

Gravel and mud clung to his socks, ragged as they were. As he got closer to the train, he could hear the Super Mutants snuffling and snorting as they slept. He held his breath as he passed, mostly from the smell.

The closer he got to the train, the brighter the flickering firelight. He was risking a lot here, moving so openly.

Nearly there. Movement, to his right.

Quickly Mosby judged the distance. He was just out of sight, but if the Gunner turned-

He made his choice and darted forward, diving and rolling beneath the train. Coming to a halt in the middle of the metal tracks, he held himself still and watched the Gunner look up and scan the camp.

After a long moment, they returned to scraping mud from their boots.

Mosby let out a brief exhale, and shook the wrench from his sleeve.

He stared up. Only then did it dawn on him he had no plan.

Shit.

Maybe if he-

Mosby reached up and, as quietly as he could, loosened the first bolt he found. Lowering his arms, he considered for a brief moment that maybe that was good enough, then reconsidered.

In the center of the wheels was a bar securing the two wheels together. Surely that could do some damage.

He gave the bolt in the middle a few twists, just enough to make the center bar wobble.

Grasping the rails, he quietly pushed himself forward, pausing every few inches as the gravel rustled beneath his back.

After an agonizingly slow crawl, he reached the front wheels and performed the same procedure.

For good measure, he thrust the wrench beneath one of the wheels.

Watching, upside-down, until the figures by the fire turned their back, he scrambled out and dashed for the shadows. Skirting the edge of the camp, he returned to his bunk.

There he waited, pretending to sleep, until the Gunner Captain returned with his patrol.

He felt the man's eyes on his back.

"Useless lump," he heard.

Mosby waited.

Finally the Captain retired to his own bedroll. The camp fell silent, just a few shuffling guards patrolling the perimeter.

He reached for his boots and slipped into the darkness.

*

"Took care of those Gunners for you," he called. "Well, sort of."

Preston Garvey lowered his laser rifle and frowned. "What do you mean, 'sort of'?"

"Put the train out of commission for a while."

"That's good." There was a faint note of hope in Garvey's voice.

"But," Mosby continued, "they're not going away. Somebody's hired them to find something."

"What?"

"Dunno. But if a whole patrol of Gunners went missing, it'd raise questions. Probably get a hundred more up here, breathing down your necks. I suggest you shore up your town until they go away."

Preston sighed, glancing back toward the center of Sanctuary. The wooden shacks were coming along, they now had more secure walls than they had the last time Mosby had seen them.

"And if they come for us?"

Mosby shrugged. "Run, fight, hide--it's up to you. You seem like good people. If I'm around, I'll help."

"That's hardly comforting."

"Garvey, if you're looking for comfort, you're in the wrong place." He laughed and shifted the rifle on his back.

"I suppose you're right." Preston reached into his pocket and retrieved a pouch full of caps. "Here. For your troubles."

Mosby tucked it in his pocket. "Thanks."

"We appreciate what you've done for us."

"Happy to help." He turned to go.

"Hey, kid."

Mosby saw an old woman with misty blue eyes beckoning to him.

"Yeah?"

"Those Gunners are looking for something dangerous. Something they don't understand."

Mosby raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know that, ma'am?"

"I'm Mama Murphy. My job to know things."

"Sure, well." He gave a little wave of his hand. "Nice to meet you, and all, but I've got places to be."

"Headed to Diamond City?"

He frowned.

_I hadn't even made up my mind yet, how would she-_

"You won't find answers there. You'll only find more questions."

Mosby shook his head. "Yeah, well, all the same, I go where I want."

"I've seen it. What the Gunners are looking for. Seen glimpses in the dark."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The spark's gone out. They flip the switch and it all goes dark. Everything." She fixed her icy eyes on him. "You should be careful. Keep walking around in the light and he'll find out you're coming."  
As quickly as the somber look had come over her face, it vanished. She smiled.

"Take care, kid."

Mosby backed up a few steps without thinking, face fixed in a forced smile.

"Okay," he managed.

The edge of town couldn't come soon enough.


	2. Great Green Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mosby would do anything to get thoughts of Vault-Tec's pre-war horrors out of his head. Even if that means joining up with the Gunners and taking odd jobs around the Commonwealth. Got to make a few caps somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read and kudos'd and commented, I really, really appreciate it! The past couple of months have hit me pretty hard, but I promise more Fitz Mosby is on the way. Thanks for your patience.

"Was wondering if you'd be back."

The greeting wasn't necessarily rude, wasn't exactly welcoming, either.

"Valentine in?" Mosby asked.

The look she was giving him wasn't irritation, more the kind of irked side-eye reserved for a radroach appearing in an unexpected place.

"He's working on a case."

"So am I."

"Keep me informed." He heard a voice from the back room, stepped aside as two men emerged--one synth, one looking quite out of place. "I'll keep searching here and see what I dig up."

"Thanks, Valentine." The man wore a blue jumpsuit, a Vaultsuit, Mosby realized, as he stepped aside to let the figure pass through the door.

He could only stare as the Vault Dweller passed. So it was true. He was real. Didn't even look too worse for wear, despite having been on ice for 200 years. Not that Mosby had expected him to be blue and frostbitten.

"The Vault-seeker returns," Valentine greeted him. "This is the fella I was telling you about, Ellie, the Vault-Tec enthusiast."

The words sent Mosby's stomach turning. "I wouldn't say that."

"What can I do for you...?"

"Mosby," Mosby said. "Got another question for you. A pre-war question."

The synth's eyes narrowed. "Hardly my favorite subject, but-hm, as it happens, I might have a question for you, too."

"Shoot."

"You know a man named Kellogg?"

Mosby blinked. "Gun-for-hire type? Know of him, sure. Strikes me as the kind of man few know, and even fewer are willing to admit it."

"Heard where he might be?"

"Can't say I have."

The synth detective sighed. "If you hear anything about his whereabouts, I'd appreciate if you'd pass them along."

"Will do. He better watch his tail if Nick Valentine's lookin' for him."

Valentine gave him a wry smile. "A question for a question's only fair. What d'you have?"

Mosby paused, wondering how to ask--if he should even ask. He supposed he could chase after the Vault Dweller, try to get them to talk to him, but he was in no mood to give chase.

"Vault-Tec was working on a project, top secret. From what I've found, some information got out to the public. Not much, but enough to drive the project farther underground."

Valentine leaned against the desk, crossed his arms. The bare metal fingers of one hand tapped against the patched sleeve of his coat. "What sort of project?"

That damned curling and uncurling of his left fist. Maybe it was for the best he hadn't gotten too close to the Vault Dweller, that walking, talking personification of Vault-Tec, of all its secrets and lies. He wanted nothing more than to tear Vault-Tec apart, rip it limb-from-limb, and that poor bastard was the closest he could get to it.

Yeah, definitely for the best they'd had but a brief passing encounter.

"A weapon," he said, finally, after the silence had stretched out, broken only by the cracking of his knuckles. "I think, I couldn't find much information. Vault-Tec buried it, and buried it deep. But they were working with the army, before the war. Before the bombs. And I can't think of anything they would've been working on."

Valentine regarded him through those even yellow eyes, which revealed very little--Mosby wondered if all synths were like that, if all their eyes were so expressionless, or if it was just a detective's little quirk.

"Knowing Vault-Tec," he said, "I'm guessing it wasn't too pleasant."

"You remember anything like it? Anything that was leaked to the public, any details that got out?" He tucked his left fist in his pocket to stop it twitching, and continued, "Anything about something called 'Summanus'?"

The detective lit a cigarette, seemingly transfixed the smoke that trailed from the tip. "Can't say I know the name."

Mosby didn't know if he'd expected a reply other than that. Maybe he'd hoped for more from someone with 200 years of experience and a life before the bombs made a grease stain of the world. Maybe that was too much to ask.

"Seems like neither of us have the answers," Valentine went on. "Sorry to disappoint."

Mosby removed his hand from his pocket and hooked a thumb in his waistband to try and uncurl his fingers. "I'll keep an ear out for Kellogg."

"Appreciate it."

One more stop in Diamond City, one last-ditch effort to glean some answers from the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth.

Then, though he hardly wanted to admit it, he was out of ideas.

*

The little tyke outside the newspaper office was a good salesman, he'd give her that. Had quite an impressive shout, able to cut through the air and rise above even the clamor of the market.

"Read about the 'Man Out of Time!' Vault Dweller wakes up after 200 years!"

She caught sight of him before he could sidle past toward the door.

"Newest issue of Publick Occurances out now, get your copy now, mister!"

"Sorry, kid, not much of a reader."

"But this story's got everything," she pressed. "Daring deeds, vengeance, a message of hope in the Wasteland!"

"All out of caps, kid."

She put her hands on her hips. From where she stood atop a crate, she was almost eye-to-eye with him. "I just saw you spend plenty of caps over at Arturo's, c'mon, you don't have a few to spare for the greatest rag in the 'Wealth?"

"Just spent my last on ammo." Mosby shrugged, and the motion sent the caps jingling in his pocket. "Sorry."

He felt her roll her eyes at his back as he entered the office. The resident reporter sat on a couch along the wall and looked up as he entered. "Hey, Blue-oh, you're not Blue. Thought he'd come back to thank me for such a great story, I made him look pretty good. You get a copy of the newest issue yet?"

Mosby almost laughed. The Wright sisters had more in common than just a name.

"Not much of a reader," he repeated. "Got a lead on a story for you."

Piper Wright set aside her notebook. "What sort of story?"

"'Bout some Gunners digging around up north. They're looking for something."

Mosby was testing the waters, here, he knew he had to be careful. Piper had contacts everywhere, as many enemies as friends, they had that in common. If he let on too much, she'd press him for information without giving anything up--and that was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

"Looking for something," she echoed, and the confusion seemed genuine. "Not really the Gunners' strong suit--you did say Gunners, right?"

"I've seen 'em." Mosby nodded. "Around junk yards, plane wrecks, everywhere they might find scrap--like a bunch of scavvers."

"Huh."

"Thought you'd have heard by now."

She retrieved her notebook and scribbled in it without looking, keeping keen eyes on him. "What makes you say that?"

"Somebody hired 'em to do it. A big player, figured they were out of Diamond City."

She shook her head. "Not that I've heard. And I would've heard. You know anything more about these Gunners?"

"Maybe a detail or two, but, gee, it's been a while since I've had a nice, hot meal, my mind's a bit hazy. Few caps might help me along."

Piper scoffed. "A bribe?"

"Hardly. Payment for information. You often get tips for free?"

"Usually," she grumbled, reaching into her desk to retrieve a few caps, "people are willing to give 'em out of the goodness of their heart."

He accepted the caps and slipped them into his pocket. "I don't have any of that, Wright. Caps is what keeps me going."

"Tell me more about these Gunners."

"They've got a train up north, near Sanctuary. Heard the Minutemen have settled up there, Gunners are giving them a bit of trouble."

"A train, you say?" She was scribbling furiously.

"Got it rigged up to a few super mutants to pull it along."

Piper whistled. "They've got to be pretty crazy to get that close to a mutant."

"Crazy," Mosby allowed, "or well-armed."

"What else?"

"That's all I know."

The words were met by a glare. "If you're looking for more caps-"

"Honest." Mosby patted his pocket. "That's all I know. I'm interested to know who hired 'em, was hoping you might know. Or might be able to find out."

"Well, it's nobody in Diamond City that I know of. You know what they're looking for?"

He had an idea. Maybe. It was far-fetched, perhaps, maybe a little too heavily reliant on coincidence and luck. But it was an idea, and, with as many dead ends as he'd met in his years of tracking down Vault-Tec's ghost, he was willing to take any idea he could get.

"A weapon, maybe. Something pre-war, stashed away somewhere in the 'Wealth."

"What sort of weapon requires Gunners and super mutants to find?"

Mosby shrugged. "Getting details is your job, reporter."

She rolled her eyes--another of those Wright sister traits. "I'll see what I can find."

"I might, uh," Mosby had to force the words out against his better judgement, "I might be able to help." The last thing he needed was to dig himself deeper, but here he was, with shovel in hand. Seems he always did this. "Follow a lead. Split our efforts."

Piper pursed her lips. "Newspapers are hardly a business to make a fortune from. You doing this with some crazy notion you might get some caps out of it?"

A few more shovels of hypothetical dirt flew over his head. "Hoping I might get some answers."

She regarded him for a moment, then a sly smile crossed her face. "S'pose I could share the byline with a fellow fact-finder. I'll dig around here. You head to Goodneighbor, if somebody's looking for guns, that's a good place to ask."

Mosby nodded and turned for the door.

"On second thought," She caught him, "Bunker Hill. Plenty of caravans pass through that gate every day, and some of them have loose lips. Might dig up something around there."

It was against his better judgement--how frequently he found himself going against his better judgement these days, all to appease that damn clenching of his damn fist--he found himself in Bunker Hill. He stood for a moment, staring up at the white monolith in the center of town, rising high above the surrounding rooftops. He'd walked up it once before, stared around at the wastes. Searching for something. He didn't know what it was then, he still didn't now. Supposed he'd always be searching for that nameless, faceless something. So long as his fist kept that mad, twitching dance at his side.

He made his way around the stalls, asking here, prodding there, until he arrived at the stall of a man who introduced himself as Old Man Stockton.

Mosby had felt the man's eyes on him as he'd made his way around the market, and fixed an easy smile on his face, one that twisted the scar on his cheek as muscles unfamiliar with the gesture were forced into motion.

"Howdy, friend, do you by chance have a Geiger counter?"

Of all the things Mosby may have expected, that hadn't been close to it.

"Uh, no."

"Ah, well." Stockton met his easy smile with one of his own. "Have to find one elsewhere. Can I help you with something?"

"I hear you've got your finger in quite a few trade routes across the 'Wealth."

"I do. You looking for work?"

"In a way. Wondering if you run anything for the Gunners."

The moment he said it, he knew he'd made a mistake. Stockton's eyes hardened, his smile faded.

"We don't do business with them here. And if you do, I'd suggest you leave."

"I don't-"

The merchant's hand was below the counter, fingers on the butt of a gun just out of Mosby's view. But he'd been held at gunpoint enough to recognize the smell of oil and gunpowder, even before a piece was fired. He kept his easy smile and stepped back a few paces.

Other merchants heard Stockton's words and looked up with glares of their own.

Remarkable how quickly a whole settlement turns against you. Fuck, after all this, after everything, he'd been careless.

"I'll be getting out of your hair, then," he said, though, internally, his thoughts were far more profane.

The guns and eyes alike were trained on his back all the way out of the market, down the stairs, out the main gate. Mosby heard it shut behind him, and managed to wait a few blocks before he let the flurry of swears out. He drove his left fist into a wall and swore as two of his fingers snapped.

"Fucking bastard shit-"

A scuffling down the alley to his right. He turned to fix his good eye into the darkness, the sun casting long shadows as it fell below the rooftops. To his surprise, he saw a naked man stumbling toward him.


	3. The Naked Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of leads and nearing his wit's end, Mosby finds he's got nothing better to do than to look into the Pillars of the Community, a group that promises a better life--something much too good to be true in the Wasteland.

"What the fuck?"

"Help me!" The naked man looked quite the worse for wear. Aside from the obvious lack of clothes, he bore bruises and bloody smears across his face, like someone had taken out their frustration at a particularly bad day on his jaw.

Mosby kept a hand on his pistol, not that the unarmed man could really do him any harm. But he was disquieted, to say the least.

And, though it was hardly eloquent, all he could manage was to again repeat, "What the fuck?"

"Please," the man gasped, "they're after me! They're right behind me!"

Mosby risked a glance over the man's shoulder to the alley beyond, to see it sat dark and empty. He checked over his own shoulder to see that the street beyond, lit by the glow of Bunker Hill, was similarly vacant.

"Real funny," he said, not drawing his piece, not yet, "You tell your friends to come out here. Hands up, slow-like."

"Wha-what?" The man faltered. He was a good actor, Mosby decided, the fear in his eyes looked real. Very...real.

"You pull this trick often? I'll have you know I'm no gullible sap, you can't fool me so easy."

That bone-deep terror, the tears welling, the desperation in his voice--the man was really selling the role. Really selling...

Mosby's eyes narrowed. "This is some scam, ain't it?"

"Please," the man repeated. He'd taken to cowering against a near wall, huddled against the dirt-caked bricks.

And Mosby reflected the fear was too convincing to be faked.

"Take it easy," he said, removing his hand from his pistol but keeping it by his side, appeasing the nagging paranoia in his gut. "What the hell happened to you?"

"The Pillars," the man said, tears slipping down his grimy cheeks. "The Pillars got me."

Mosby repeated the words, hoping the action would assign them some meaning. Unsuccessful, he frowned.

"You've gotta help me!"

"Alright, take it easy," Mosby said again, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it toward the man. "Here, cover up. These...Pillars, they armed?"

The man nodded, wrapping the jacket around himself.

"You'd best get inside. Head to Bunker Hill, it's just down the street. You'll find help there." His good eye flicked down the dark alleyway again. "What'd they do to you?"

"He promised a better life," the man said, stumbling toward him. Mosby backed up, treading carefully over the uneven ground. "A new beginning. A way to help. And he took everything, nearly killed me! Now they're after me, you've gotta-"

"Alright, alright," Mosby held up his hands, "I'll take care of it, just get to the Hill. Keep your head down, I'll..." He couldn't exactly stroll into the market, not after the hostility he'd stirred up with a few poorly-chosen words. "I'll get a message to you when it's safe."

There was a moment of relief before that fear crept over the man's face again. "They took everything, I don't have any caps, I can't-"

_Of course he doesn't._

Not like he had anything better to do. Maybe he'd get lucky and find himself caught up in a shoot-out. He could use one, might ease the tension. Might stop his left fist from curling and uncurling.

Mosby sighed. "Just fish out a cigarette or two from the jacket pocket, would you?"

The man passed them over.

"Thanks. Now where are these Pillars?"

*

It wasn't particularly difficult to find them, they'd plastered buildings and fences with their fliers, left pamphlets scattered in doorways and at intersections. As Mosby stooped to retrieve yet another of them, he wondered exactly what these Pillars were promising that could convince somebody to sit down and write out all the papers.

"DO YOU FEEL YOUR LIFE ISN'T WHAT YOU WANTED?  
ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A CHANGE?"

Mosby couldn't help but laugh. Sure, the Wasteland wasn't a walk in the park--far from it. But survival was the name of the game, and anybody thinking otherwise, promising some easy way out through some "truth" they and only they had managed to figure out, was a damn fool. Or, worse, a damn genius.

They directed him to an amphitheater on the riverbank, lit up by a large bonfire out front. Figures milled about, he could see the glint of the guns on their hips.

Mosby wasn't fond of playing the sucker, but recent events had led him to think maybe he wasn't playing anymore. Wasting his life searching for long-dead secrets. Spending caps on junk and leads that went nowhere. Doing a job for free, for fuck's sake--he was a sap, through and through. It'd get him killed one day, he just knew it. A wonder it hadn't already.

So, though he was far more inclined to go in guns blazing until his bullets were gone or they got in a lucky shot and laid him out, whichever came first, he played the sucker.

"Hello," he called, raising a hand in greeting. The figures turned to face him, each wearing a broad smile. He managed something that wasn't entirely a grimace in return.

"Hello, neighbor," one replied, stepping forward to greet him. "Do you seek the truth?"

"Sure," Mosby said. Then, realizing he needed a bit more conviction in his words, he tried again, "I mean, yes, yes, I do."

"Speak to Brother Thomas, neighbor, he'll help you on your way. We're always searching for new members."

That smile was unnervingly genuine, not an expression Mosby was used to receiving. He found he didn't much care for it.

"Sure thing," he said, and looked to where the figure gestured, to a man sitting in a plush armchair on the amphitheater's stage.

As he started forward, two pipe pistol-toting figures arrived at the man's side and leaned down to mutter something. Mosby strained to hear what was said, only managing to catch the final few words,

"-can't find him."

The man saw Mosby approach and, in a moment, his sour frown was wiped away.

"Ah, a new face. Have you interest in joining our little movement?"

"I'm interested in what you have to say."

"Excellent." The man shooed the others away and rose to his feet. "I am Brother Thomas, this here is the home of the Pillars of the Community. We're a new movement, you might not have heard of us."

"I've seen your fliers around."

"You have, you have, how marvelous." Another of those sickly-sweet smiles, though this one, Mosby noticed, seemed a touch less genuine. He could see something in the man's eyes, something he might describe as dodgy.

Mosby crossed his arms, then sternly told himself to uncross them. "Tell me more."

"We're dedicated to making life better through helping others," Thomas said, with that smile--slimy, that was it. Not dodgy, that gleam in his eye was best described as slimy. "By accepting the truth, and putting the chaos of our past lives behind us."

"What truth's that?"

"That salvation may be attained, and easily, I might add. A simple process, with the simplest first step imaginable."

Mosby had to fight hard to keep the empty-eyed sucker's look he wore. "Go on."

"Why don't we step inside my office and talk about it?" Brother Thomas took a step forward, extending a had to the path around the side of the amphitheater. "I'm sure you have questions."

Mosby allowed himself to be led off the stage. As the two entered the office, he caught sight of a man around the back of the building, saw the rifle slung over his shoulder. Another woman took a position outside the door, he saw her back through the window, saw the small light flare as she lit a cigarette.

Should be a good fight.

"Mind if I smoke?" he asked.

"Go ahead," Thomas said, taking a seat behind the desk and gesturing to a chair.

Mosby lit a cigarette of his own, slightly bent from rolling loose in his trouser pocket, and picked a bit of lint off his tongue.

"Well," he said, after taking a few puffs and blowing a cloud of smoke into the air between them, "tell me about this salvation of yours."

"Don't you feel lost? Feel like your life has no meaning?"

"Sure." And it wasn't entirely a lie.

"The Pillars is made up of people who feel the same, who felt the same until they found the truth. That the meaning of life is in others, not in the life you used to have. Not in the Wasteland, but here, with your neighbors."

"Sounds swell."

Brother Thomas leaned forward, and Mosby got the impression some great finale was coming, that he was a fish that Thomas was sure he'd snagged and was about to reel in.

"And that first step, like I said, is so simple. So easy to start on your journey to salvation, to find your place among us."

"I'm all ears," Mosby blew out another puff of smoke, "neighbor."

"Give up everything you own."

Mosby flicked a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette. "That all?"

Brother Thomas blinked, losing his rhythm for a moment. He quickly recovered. "Like I said, it's quite simple. Those things, those material things, only hold you back. Wouldn't you like to be free of them? To be free to live for others, not for things?"

"Maybe." Mosby considered. "'Spose it'd be easier. Live for another and all that, find satisfaction in helping others."

"That's it!"

"Hm." He stubbed out his cigarette on the desk and stowed the half-smoked stub behind his ear. "That work often?"

The smile faltered. "There are many who seek the truth, who want...want a new life."

"Oh, sure. We all want a change, don't we? Say I give you everything--and, buddy, it's not much to speak of--what'll you do with it?"

"I-we dispose of it. To stop it from tempting you."

"Dispose of it in the river? Or to the nearest trader and pocket the caps?"

"I can't believe you'd accuse the Pillars of such a heinous-"

"And what if I say no? Your goons out there gonna come in and take it from me?"

Brother Thomas' smile had entirely faded now, replaced by that same sour frown he'd worn earlier.

"Listen here, you jackass, you keep quiet. We've got a nice thing going here, and nobody--I mean, nobody--is going to ruin it. Certainly not you, some flea-bitten nobody."

Thomas rose and Mosby heard the door open behind him, felt eyes on his back. He stayed seated, and the even smile on his face was as real as the pistol on his hip.

"Folks don't often stand up to you, do they? I guess if they do, they end up dead. Or running scared, scared and...in an unfortunate state."

Thomas paused.

"Sounds like you're searching for somebody. I might know where they are. And since you've got quite a few suckers out there-" He nodded in the direction of the figures huddled around the bonfire. "-I'm sure you've got a few caps to spare. Say you give me, oh, 400 caps, and I'll tell you where he's gone. Better yet, I'll show you."

"He ain't worth 400," Thomas snapped.

"But you don't want him spreading the word around, ruining your business, do you? And you certainly don't know where he is. So I'd say you're lucky I'm low-balling you like this. Guess I'm feeling generous today."

"Why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn't." Mosby's smile widened. "But people do awful stupid things when caps are involved."

Brother Thomas grit his teeth and glared for a moment longer. "Fine."

Mosby rose. "I'll take those caps."

"Bring me that fool and I'll get you your caps. Not before."

"Half."

"If you think-"

"Half, or I walk out of here. Or your goons kill me, and you risk never finding him, risk a whole lot of missed profit. Your call."

Mosby could hear the man's teeth grind.

"Fine," he repeated.

The caps were shoved into a pouch and tossed in his direction. He rattled them, doing a quick estimation. "Thanks."

"Hold it," Thomas growled. "Jess is going with you."

"I work alone."

"If you want the rest of your caps, Jess goes with you. I don't trust you."

The woman outside the door dropped her cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. Her eyes were heavy on Mosby's back.

Things could never be easy, could they. That'd be far too much to ask of the 'Wealth.

"Alright, Jess." Mosby turned, retrieving the cigarette from behind his ear. "Let's go catch your rat."

*

Piper Wright was hardly a favorite customer of the Colonial Taphouse--in fact, she'd been banned from the premises after her nagging questions had started to get on the nerves of the tavern's exclusive clientele.

It was as if Wellingham could sense her climbing the ramp, and was there to block her way the moment she appeared.

"Aw, c'mon," she said, trying to push past.

"You are not welcome here," the robot retorted. "I believe we've made that quite clear on multiple occasions."

"It's a free city, isn't it? I'm working on a story right now, you know it wouldn't look great if I mentioned how I was stopped from getting important information by a certain proprietor of a certain establishment...seems sort of guilty, don't you think?"

If Wellingham could frown, he would've glowered at her.

"Make it snappy," he growled, and reluctantly let her pass.

The usual suspects sat at the patio tables--the Codmans, Malcom Latimer, and a relative newcomer to the city, one who'd settled very quickly into the lush lifestyle of Diamond City's Upper Stands.

None of the others would talk to her, that she knew, but the newcomer...maybe she could butter him up.

Piper slipped inside the white picket fence and invited herself to pull up a chair and sit across from him. The other occupants sneered, but the city's newest arrival, remarkably, looked confused.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

"Not yet," she said, flashing her best winning smile. "Piper Wright, I run Diamond City's newspaper."

"A dirty old rag," Latimer muttered.

She ignored him. "I don't believe I've had a chance to welcome you to our great green jewel."

The man regarded her with suspicion, holding a glass of wine in one hand and a pipe in the other. He lifted the latter to his lips and _pup-pupped_.

"Nice to meet you, I suppose," he said.

"Interesting things always going on around here," she pressed on. "No shortage of excitement. 'Specially up in the Stands. Say, have you heard about-"

"Oh, don't you have some sob story to write, Piper?" Ann Codman snapped.

"-about the frozen man, emerged from a vault up north. Any comment on that, as a newcomer to the city?"

"From a vault, you say?" The man suddenly looked rather interested.

"Yeah, his son was kidnapped. Just wrote a piece on it, in the newest issue of the-"

"That's enough, Piper." Wellingham appeared beside her. "You have pestered the guests enough, it's time you go."

"Here, here." Clarence Codman lifted his glass.

"Well, hey," Piper said, as she was none-too-gently ushered off the patio, "thanks for your time, Mr...?"

"Fink," the man replied.

Piper caught hold of the fence, digging her nails in to prevent the robot from pushing her down the ramp. "I forgot to ask, what business are you in, Fink?"

_Pup-pup._

"Acquiring things that have been lost."

"Huh. Must be-" The robot's clawed appendage seized her wrist, prying her hands free and forcing her away. She shouted the rest of the sentence, "interesting work!"

If he replied, she didn't hear.

She shoved Wellingham off, frowning. "Alright, let go of me, you rust-bucket. How about I write a bad review of your tavern, huh? 'Service is terrible, waitstaff rude-'"

"Go ahead," he retorted. "No one would read it, no one who matters, anyway."

Piper scoffed, pulling her notepad from her pocket and scribbling as she descended the ramp.

_Fink--newcomer. Finds things. Interested in vault._

*

He'd run out of cigarettes, smoked all he could find in his pockets, cursing silently he hadn't snagged more from his coat before giving it away. A few steps behind, the woman was running out of patience.

"You said you knew where he was."

"I do, we're going there now."

They wandered around Beacon Hill, criss-crossing through alleys and ruined streets. Wandered was a good word for it, as Mosby had no real destination in mind. Killing time was the name of the game at the moment, then killing...well, it was a real shame Thomas sent someone along.

Although, if this was the line of work they were in, maybe it wasn't so much of a shame.

"You got a cigarette?" he asked.

He turned to see she was pointing the rifle at his chest, her finger itching on the trigger. "You're leading me in circles."

"In circles? Would I do that? Me, the sucker you just met and tried to play for a fool?" He shook his head. "You're too cruel."

"Tell me where that rat is, or I'll kill you where you stand."

"Alright." He held up his hands, his left curled into a fist. "He's at Goodneighbor. No, damn, that's not it. Faneuil Hall--no, there's just mutants there."

"Tell me now."

"Alright, alright, you got me. He's at Bunker Hill."

"Bunker-" She spat on the ground. "Why the hell were we all the way out here, then, you damn-"

_Bang._

"Sorry," Mosby told the corpse, before putting another in its head for good measure. "But, really, I'm not that sorry."

He rifled through her pockets, retrieving a few more cigarettes, then turned for Bunker Hill.

It took a great deal of pounding on the gates for them to open. He was greeted by the barrel of a rifle. Spent plenty of his time staring down barrels of rifles, didn't he? Too much, some would say.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he told the rifle, or, more specifically, the merchant holding it. "I'm not wanted here. Just tell that fool that stumbled in scared out of his mind to get the hell out of town. I've bought him a bit of time, but they'll keep coming 'til he's dead. And tell people to steer clear of that riverside amphitheater, some cons down there looking to prey on the dimwitted."

The merchant regarded him with narrowed eyes.

"The amphitheater," she repeated.

"Some leeches calling themselves the Pillars. They're bad news, don't let 'em tell you otherwise."

She looked like she wanted to say more, but before she could, her eyes were drawn upwards by a chorus of shouts from the market behind her. A booming voice filled the air.

" _People of the Commonwealth, do not interfere._ "

Mosby followed her gaze to see a hulking metal beast flying overhead. Propellers big as train cars, a curved body that glinted in the sun. An airship, bigger than any he'd seen.

" _Our intentions are peaceful_."

"Lot of firepower for peaceful intentions," Mosby mused, watching the vertibirds come loose from the central body one after another.

"What the hell..." the woman muttered, the rifle in her hands drooping toward the ground.

" _We are the Brotherhood of Steel._ "

Mosby pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, watching the airship move across the sky. The ship looked mighty, was probably full to the gills with guns and people who knew how to use them. Whoever this Brotherhood of Steel, he had his doubts about their intentions.

He'd make an effort to stay out of their way. Though he'd hardly been successful in avoiding trouble in the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of canon-divergence, aka Jad does a bit of event rearranging with when exactly the BOS arrives. Just go with it


End file.
